Each Expo set out the future
we never had. Mountains
in the distance. In Osaka and Vancouver,
overcast. What if the sky had opened?

The cranegirl wove a scroll
from the red feathers of the wound.
Each time that scene appeared
my heart lurched. Now they'd seen her.
She must die again.

My cerebrum's pleated into tiny Fujis.
At the base, a peach orchard nearly in flower: a thousand
deer-limbed trees brushed with blushes. Probe that region
of my brain and I will know the kneeling and the tea.

<<. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . >>